Half-Forgotten
by JaneValentine
Summary: Objectively, Sam knows Dean takes care of him, but he hasn't had it put quite like that. Short and fluffy without real plot.


It is betrayal of the highest order, Sam knows, and yet he can't help but look. He has always been curious like that.

Curiosity has killed more than cats, he supposes.

The witch has promised him great powers if Sam would just leave him alone. Negotiations are a new one – most supernatural creatures they hunt skip straight to the attempted killing. And it is really quite surprising that they haven't cottoned on to this strategy. Hunters may be a tough lot, but they are corruptible, especially with the kind of life they lead. Wouldn't you want riches, fame, or, failing that, at least a nice house or a car that never runs out of gas? Even Dean may be tempted to think for a second on the last one.

Then again, most hunters are wise to the tricks of the prey.

Then again, Sam has always been after new knowledge.

Then again, this is a free preview and it's not like he can even prevent it when the witch shoves the vision on him.

"See," the young-looking man hisses, holding Sam pinned to the wall at a distance and with a look of urgency on his handsome face, "this could be to your great advantage. Being able to see into other people's feelings. Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't it make your life so much easier?"

And the thing is, it would. Because being stuck into a rumbling, growling car with an inscrutable Dean-face for ten hours straight while he is trying to figure what he did wrong this time stops being fun after the third minute. And it's always Dean. It always comes back to Dean.

So naturally, it is Dean that the witch shows him. Dean, who is at the motel sleeping off an injury from their last hunt, when a ghost tore into his arm with a piece of jagged glass. Sam sewed it neatly shut, but he insisted that between the blood loss and the exhaustion of exhuming a corpse with a deep bleeding gash, Dean was out for the count until he got at least twelve hours of sleep. The witch was stupid, probably new to the life. He had assumed that the hunters were in town because of him. He used Sam's food run to tackle him into an abandoned shack behind the 7/11 and – try to bribe him.

With Dean's dreams.

The trip is vertiginously fast. One moment, in his head Sam is standing by the motel bed on which Dean is fast asleep. The next, he has a plunging sensation of being sucked in. Into Dean's head, where –

Sam can't be more than three. He is crying fitfully, lying on an ancient creaking cot that can fit in eight Sams. His blanket is hanging between the bars. He is afraid of the dark.  
"Shhhh," comes a whisper from a tousle-haired Dean standing by the cot. "You gotta be quiet, Sammy. Daddy's tired."

Little Sam stares imploringly at his brother and raises a pudgy hand to make a grab at him. His hand can't get a hold of Dean and he starts crying again, rubbing at his eyes.  
Dean is climbing the bars and carefully steps on Sam's side, then lies down and wriggles himself next to Sam. He wraps a hand around him and tugs the blanket back on top of them with the other hand.

"If you keep real quiet, I'll tell you a story," he counsels little Sam earnestly. "It's a good story, Sammy, it has dragons in it. C'mon, Daddy needs to sleep too and you get to hear a story. That's fair, right?"

Sam is already quiet, huge eyes staring back at his brother and small hands moving restlessly over the blanket and Dean's face as if to make sure he is there. Dean gives a sleepy smile.

"See? I'll take care of you, like I said. Now, the story starts a loooong time ago, okay, and that's before you were born, before I was born, before even Daddy was born…"

The cot fades out and a swirl of colours replaces it. Sam sees Dean's worn and sleeping face again for a brief second, then it's a bleak autumn day. The school is gray and dull, a block of concrete really, and the seven-year-old Sam is dwarfed by it as he waits by the entrance with the school nurse. He is sitting on a bench and his ankle is bandaged.

"Sammy!" Dean comes barreling out of the building. The wind immediately picks up his shaggy hair and tosses it all over the place, but Dean doesn't pay attention. He checks Sam over with his eyes even before he has reached him and throws his backpack on the bench by his side before he crouches down to examine Sam's ankle. His attention is reserved for Sam and Sam only, the nurse doesn't even get a glance. She speaks to him nonetheless:

"Your brother twisted his ankle on a fall during Physical Education. He will probably be fine, but I recommend your father take him to the ER to make sure it's not broken." She peers at Dean a bit suspiciously. "Your father is coming, right?"

Dean is looking at Sam, not at the nurse, searching for his reassurance.

"It's all right, Dean," Sam says quietly. "It doesn't hurt much. I only twisted it a little."

Only now Dean straightens up and looks at the nurse. His face doesn't give away that he is thinking fast, but Sam knows that their father left on a hunt yesterday.

"We live nearby, ma'am," Dean lies very smoothly, his face radiating innocence and charm. "I rang Daddy and he said to take Sammy home while he goes to prepare the car to take us to the hospital."

The nurse is obviously searching this statement carefully to decide whether to believe it or not, but Dean does not give her time to think. Instead he puts on his backpack and crouches again in front of Sam, this time the other way round, beckoning Sam to get on a horseback ride. Sam readily complies.

"Daddy will ring Ms. Morgan to tell her if Sammy will be going to school tomorrow, ma'am," Dean says, looking up at the nurse and effectively stopping her from arguing, Sam mounted on his back above the backpack like some sort of hunchback melded creature. The nurse looks as though she might say something, but Dean is already turning around and marching towards the gates, slightly bent over the weight of Sam on his back. Once they are far away enough, Dean asks in an undertone, "You sure the bone is not broken?"

"Yeah," Sam answers just as low. "I can step on it all right, it just hurts and is a bit swollen. I'm fine, really."

Dean adjusts his grip on Sam on the move and says after a moment: "I'll make some alphabet soup today, and we've got some meatball spaghetti in the fridge. What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam knows Dean will carry him the whole half a mile to the bus stop even if it kills him, and this makes him forget about the pain from the twisted ankle entirely. "Okay, but I get first dibs on the TV."

Dean complains, but he is going to let Sam do whatever he wants today, and Sam knows that too, so when Dean gets him off his back and on the seat in the bus and he remembers his homework, he asks, "Will you get my backpack from school, Dean? I left it to Ms. Morgan and she gave us a load of math to do at home."

There is a pause in which Dean obviously doesn't say anything about Sam's nerdiness and instead says, "Yeah, okay, let's just go home and tomorrow I can go pick it up."

Sam is satisfied with that answer and gives a weary sigh as he leans into his brother's side. Dean puts a hand around him to keep him stable and Sam closes his eyes, letting the rumble of the bus engine lull him into sleep.

The scene dissolves and Sam glimpses briefly the witch's triumphant expression, a step closer than before, then again Dean's sleeping form. A beat, and Sam is the one who is lying down, huddled in the back seat of the Impala as his Dad drives it down a winding road to the accompanying sound of hard rock. Dean is twenty and is leaning over from the front seat and grinning at him.

"Hey, you feel like puking again? We can stop anytime you like, Sammy, this landscape could use the improvement."

"Go to hell," Sam moans weakly as he tries to make himself smaller and warmer by curling into a ball, as much as his legs would allow him. Fighting the fever is an unequal battle and Sam is losing, but it could be worse. At least a fever is something normal. Human.

Now the car is stopping and the driver's door is slammed, followed by retreating footsteps. Sam cracks open one eye and sees Dean scramble around once again to loom over him.

"Well," he says carelessly as he reaches down to touch Sam's forehead, "looks like you'll live, after all. Every day is a miracle, remember."

Sam irritably swats his hand away, squinting against the light. "Asshole," he mumbles.

"Oh, real classy, Sammy, what is next, you gonna start wanting your hot water bottle and a stuffy toy?" Even as he is talking, Dean gets out of the car and Sam hears the trunk open. In a moment the door by his feet is opening and Dean is tugging off his shoes. Sam tries to fight him just on principle, but his strength has all left him and Dean is persistent, so he surrenders after a token attempt at a kick. Dean lets the shoes drop on the floor of the Impala and then he is covering Sam with the blanket they keep in the trunk. "Just chill, Sammy, Dad's off to get some paracetamol and water, sleep some, take some and you'll be right as rain." The words spoken form a soothing stream even as the blanket spreads some warmth down Sam's body, and Dean's hands are nimble, tucking it around his feet and shoulders especially. Sam huddles into the seat and dozes off as Dean shuts the door and goes back to his seat to turn down the volume some.

The Impala disappears and Sam finds himself a step away from the witch, who is positively gloating by now. Sam stumbles a little as he finds his footing, dazed from the memories.

"This is what I can give you!" the witch crows. "Just think about it, Winchester; you will be able to tap into anyone's mind, like that, and you can find out whatever you need, all at a hand's reach."

Playing people like toys is what it is all about for this witch, and he offers more of the same to Sam. Turns out witches die just like other people if you throw a knife at their heart. He wonders if he should feel sorry for what he allowed the witch to show him. He knows that it was a betrayal of trust. But, he reasons out as he salts and burns the body in the woods around the pit stop, he was there for these events as well. They are not just Dean's. So – no harm done.

No harm done, he repeats to himself as he comes back to the motel and stands at the exact same spot as he did in his witch-induced vision. Dean would have bristled like a hedgehog if he knew. That is not because the memories in themselves are secret. It's just Dean's soft side that is secret.

Sam goes to the bathroom to look at himself at the mirror, remembering the progression – three, seven, sixteen years old. He looks much the same. Dean does too, except right now he looks about twenty years older from the pain and tiredness. But sleep will fix that.

Sam takes out the antibiotics and pours a glass of water, then crouches by Dean's side. A shake to the shoulder produces a bleary-eyed Dean who is having trouble keeping his eyes open. Sam presses his advantage and pills into Dean's hand, and his brother gives very little resistance, doing things on autopilot. Instead of giving the glass of water into his non-injured, non-dominant hand, Sam holds it to Dean's mouth, carefully tipping it until Dean has swallowed and laid back on the pillow, breathing evening out into sleep within seconds.

Sam remains crouched by the bed for a minute more. Then he pulls the blanket to cover the whole of Dean, tucking it into his sides, and brushing his hair back. He flips off the overhead light. He can clean his weapons in the semidarkness of the room just as well, while he watches over Dean.


End file.
